


In My Dark Breast, the Hot Moon

by thewindupbird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewindupbird/pseuds/thewindupbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Death Eaters come, Remus chases Harry and Ginny through the field, while behind them, the Burrow burns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Dark Breast, the Hot Moon

The tall grass cut dully against his face and hands as he crashed through it - not caring about the noise he was making, barely hearing it above the rushing blood in his ears - the blood that would be re-routed through his veins in a night’s time, when he transformed into the wolf.

 

But he wasn’t thinking about that now - he was thinking about Harry. If Harry died, Sirius would never forgive him - or he would… he would _have_. Before. And that was worse. Because Remus, he would never forgive himself. And he wouldn’t deserve it.

 

“Harry!” he shouted, but there was no response. If the Death Eaters heard him, it wouldn’t matter. Time was of the essence here, not stealth.

 

He stopped, breathing hard, trying to listen to hear something, anything. He cursed the senses of the wolf, because with his extremities tingling and his legs and back and shoulders aching, already shifting and pulling with the moon, he felt both hung over and strung out - he didn’t yet have the wolf’s hearing, nor it’s clearer sight in the dark.

 

There was a sudden crashing in the grasses to his right and Remus’s fingers clenched painfully on his wand. He wasn’t sure he would be a match for Bellatrix Lestrange, but Merlin, God, he would like to kill her.

 

He jumped as she appeared, like a deer from the underbrush. She gasped when she saw him, sharp and tight, and he caught the way her stance took on both fight and flight at once. They recognised each other at the exact same moment and he felt his heart flutter several rapid-fire beats of delayed fear, then surge back to its steady pounding against the cage of his ribs. Nymphadora held his eyes as she so easily did these days until the sounds of fired spells met their ears and they tore their eyes away, to rush to that instead.

 

They plunged forward - as one, and he had a sense of wildness - animal connection that sent him elatedly, sickeningly back to the pack mentality that he thought he had lost for good by now.

 

The wolf missed Sirius more outwardly and violently than he ever could. Than he would ever _let_ himself. There were fresh cuts on his shins and hands to prove it. His shoulders and belly were bruised and cut from last month’s transformation. The wolf had slammed itself relentlessly, pointlessly against the wall it was chained to, bitten at its fur until it bled.

 

He never let Tonks stay with him on the full moon - it would only upset her and he didn’t want her to understand just how much he missed Sirius. Because she would. And he knew it. And he was selfish. He’d always been, in his way. And some part of him didn’t want ‘Dora to know that.”

 

The water soaked through his shoes, frigid already, so early in the Autumn, and unpleasant as he crashed through it to get to the little island Harry and Ginny stood on. He stretched out his arms, trying to protect the others, to protect Harry - half of his mind thanking whoever had helped him find the boy, the other half listening as hard as he could for the Death Eaters in the field. Arthur joined them, and he felt, through the anxiety, relief.

 

After a moment there were two explosions of that black smoke - he’d never seen another wizard do that. It terrified him, and yet the bookish student in him that knew there had to be some magical explanation - was curious. Voldemort liked his magic-tricks - his flourishes. It was some alchemy of charms and dark magic.

 

Back at the Burrow, the top windows were smashed and flames lit up the night sky. It was Arthur who broke from the group first.

 

 _The transformation tomorrow will be bad_ he found himself thinking, absurdly as he rushed back to the burning house, his limbs aching and feeling strangely at odds with proper human angles. His eyes flickered from the flames shooting from the windows to Arthur - his arm tight around Molly who didn’t even turn to look at him - she knew he was coming, she knew he would be there. Knew it was her husband’s arm, and suddenly they were together and everything was a just a little better, and Remus’s heart broke a little. It embarrassed him, the sting in his nose - and the way Arthur had said his wife’s name, the way he’d broken from their group with no regard for anything, anyone but her, haunted him afterwards. Made his heart ache in a way his limbs couldn’t, because he’d only ever felt that with Sirius. When Sirius’s arms would wind around his waist from behind, that bony chin on his shoulder. Or when all he could think about, upon returning to school, while standing on platform 9 ¾, was _him_. And sod everything else.

 

He hadn’t ever loved saying a name more than Sirius’s.

 

He would never say Sirius’s name to the same effect again.

 

That name was accompanied by a vast, gaping blackness that clutched at his heart and at his gut and wrenched and clawed at his insides - very much like the werewolf did, but somehow more painful - deeper - he couldn’t even wrap his own mind around the void that it left in him.

 

He couldn’t look at her then - he knew her eyes were on him, he could feel them - and he hated it, in the moment - he wanted her to look away. He didn’t want to make that connection. And he didn’t. If he was anything, it was stubborn. He would never say her name the way she wanted him to. The way she said his.

 

~*~

 

Nymphadora knew not to touch him on these two nights - the night before, and of course the night of the full moon. Like heroin withdrawal, his body couldn’t stand it. Even clothes and covers irritated his skin like thousands of tiny shards of glass - he felt feverish and he burned with it before the moon rose fully.

 

The next evening, in his little flat Tonks sat curled up and vulnerable looking on the sofa opposite and he watched her tilt her head a little as the light reflected off of his eyes - colouring them strange and yellow-green like a dog’s in the night. Sometimes, lately, the wolf rose in him too early. He wondered if it was a side effect from no longer taking the Wolfsbane potion.

 

Embarrassed he let his eyes fall back to the book which he had held but hadn’t read for over an hour. The darkness deepened and he got up and shut the door to the unfurnished part of the flat. Against one wall there were chains that cut into the bone of his wrists and ankles, and often left bruises - but it was better than destroying the place - he couldn’t afford that.

 

He sat shivering and naked against the wall, the chains, three foot long each, and listened to the sounds upstairs, listening to Tonks zip up her bag and the front door close. She was young and naïve and thought herself much older than she acted, but she was also true to her word. She never stayed - even though now, as the moon rose and crept across the floor towards his long, pale feet, his ankles and wrists chained to the wall, he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it if she did.

 

In the morning he had just enough energy to unlock the chains and pull on his trousers and shuffle unsteadily - like a man still drunk even after he’s slept - and collapse on the couch upstairs. Sometime around nine thirty in the morning the front door opened and closed and Tonks’s warm hands - her hands were always warm - slid through his hair feather lightly.

 

She would take care of him without seeming to take care of him - she would make soup and she would be cheerful but pale - he didn’t think she slept on the full moon.

 

She loved him too much. And he hated it. He could never love her like that - and he’d tried to explain it, once, and had ended up just wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. The look in her brown eyes was too much, although the rest of her face had been so understanding. So willing to accept him, even then.

 

It was what he’d always wanted. Someone to accept him unconditionally. Only he didn’t want it from Tonks, and how wrong was that?

 

She knew he missed Sirius. Knew how he _wanted_ Sirius. She knew that if somehow, by some miracle, the man came back from beyond the veil… she _knew_ that Remus would go to him in a moment.

 

She didn’t love him any less for it. She didn’t resent him either. She was stronger than she knew, and Remus saw it, but it was hard to speak his mind around her sometimes. Most times.

 

If anyone told Nymphadora that… how strong she was, it would be Molly, and yet Molly still sometimes had a hard time getting over her exasperation with her. And Remus knew Nymphadora loved Molly - respected her opinion. Because Molly had been there for her despite it all, when he continued to refuse her, and she continued to hold out hope for him. But why? What made her love him so much? Surely it wasn’t his good looks or his charm - he’d never had much of that. That was for Sirius. And James.

 

Sunlight slid slowly up his back as the morning wore on - he could smell coffee and feel the warmth slowly lulling the wolf to sleep - easing the stiffness in his muscles and his bones.

 

His eyes flickered open. Nymphadora. _‘Dora…_ she never minded when he called her by her first name, not when she held him inside her, not when they clung to each other, gasping and sighing, his face buried in her bubblegum hair.

 

He realised strangely, suddenly, lying on his belly on the couch - drowsy and warm for the first time in hours, that he liked these moments best. When she was sitting at the kitchen table - in the next room but only a few feet away, pouring over the Daily Prophet - coffee at her elbow.

 

Her hair caught the light and her long dark eyelashes were stark against her pale skin. She was almost completely unaware of him now. in this moment - not looking for him to give her a sign of affection - confident in it, in the moment and not looking for something he could never give her - both of them content with what they had and what they could give - and what he could give was becoming significantly less and less. But then, he was used to feeling that way. Had come to accept it. In moments like these though, he began to think… that perhaps he was wrong.

 

Perhaps, in his own way, he loved her.

 

And that it would be enough for her. It would be enough.

 

Her elbow bumped her coffee mug and his shoulders tightened painfully as it shifted dangerously close to the edge of the table.

 

It slopped over the sides and she hissed and pulled her bare arm, dripping, away sharply, shaking the liquid from her fingertips carelessly onto the floor.

 

She looked over and caught his eyes and a laugh bubbled up from her throat. He smiled and rolled his eyes a little before turning his face into the pillow, ignoring the creaking protest of the vertebrae in his neck.

 

When he turned back to look at her again the mug was placed securely in the centre of the table and she was mopping up the spillage.

 

The sun rose high enough to illuminate the window hurt his eyes a little. It silhouetted Tonks’s slender form and haloed her pink hair as though giving a physical aid as to how he should feel when he looked at this brilliant young woman, nearly fourteen years his junior, who was in his kitchen and who shared his bed sometimes - more often than not, in fact.

 

And for a moment, he felt it - he did. That kind of love for her. That love he’d had for Sirius… maybe not the same kind - one could never love two people exactly the same way… but with that strength and that certainty…

 

And for a moment he thought that maybe this war, - maybe everything would turn out all right this time.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Pablo Neruda's collection of poetry "Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon" as well as his poem "Oda a un reloj en la noche" (Ode to a Watch in the Night).


End file.
